


The Girls of Minas Tirith

by heget



Series: Band of the Red Hand [10]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Female Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nargothrond Soap Opera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heget/pseuds/heget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the girls of Minas Tirith before Sauron comes.</p>
<p>(Character study to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4723037/chapters/10791461">Release from Bondage</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girls of Minas Tirith

  _These are the girls of Minas Tirith before Sauron comes._

* * *

Finduilas loves to be outside, free from stone walls, to ride across the river and up to the foothills of the mountains and see the landscape stretch out in greens and blues and grays. Leaning against the back of tree, she watches cloud shadows pass over the grass of the alpine valley and smiles at the warmth of the sun. She collects arm-fulls of wildflowers to bring back home. Bits of flowers, leaves, and dirt cling to her bright loose hair, and she brushes the golden tresses clean each night with a comb of glass-like crystal. She has no skill with the needle, to her everlasting shame and frustration, but long fingers that cannot pull a straight stitch will flow with effortless, cloud-like grace across harp strings. Finduilas can beguile sweet and haunting melodies from the pale strings.

Gwenniel trails after her friends, trying hard to be seen as more than her few years, mature and wise. She cannot decide from day to day what makes her look older, if to pin her hair up in braids or wear it loose like the princess. Her voice carries the hint of a younger language formed under the sun. She was born to the east and north of here, not that she remembers. Her home is this white tower on the island in the middle of a river. Still, as a memento of her birthplace Gwenniel wears brightly colored shawls looped around her neck or arms, the fringe constantly snagging on doors and chairs. Her two favorites are a green and brown shawl with a white fawn embroidered on the back that smells of pine needles and a narrow rainbow-striped stole that she swears still smells of her father. Her teasing uncle refuses to treat her respectfully, for all that he is courting her best friend.

Faelindis ties a blue ribbon around her neck and darns the tears in her friends’ clothes, mends shawls, and reattaches the soles of riding boots. She applauds during Finduilas’s songs and holds up the mirror as Gwenniel tucks the end of the last braid behind her ear and asks if they look as smooth and even as those of the Lady Galadriel. Faelindis reads through her father’s record books, following the double margins of accounts and dates, reading between the lines for gossip and scandals of the servants and traders, memorizing the rotating deployments of soldiers between the cities and outlying posts. She likes to stare and sigh at the handsome soldiers who pass through Minas Tirith in shining mail and decorated helms. The lords and soldiers beg her friends for their lady’s favor to carry. She pulls the blue ribbon loose and runs the silk across her fingers, waiting for someone to ask for it. No one does, so she ties the ribbon back around her neck, centering the loose bow at the hollow of her throat and checking that the loops are even.

* * *

  _Sauron comes._

* * *

Finduilas can no longer ride outside, free to see the mountains or feel the bark of a tree. She misses the sun and the feeling of the breeze, though an air current flows tantalizingly through the caverns, and she is not trapped indefinitely underground in this hidden city. But she can no longer ride to the shore of Lake Ivrin. Idle hands are only matched by idle minds in wretchedness, she thinks in her boredom, so she practices her music. At least the harp is soothing. She inherits her uncle’s magnificent pillar harp and is careful never to drop her tears onto the honey-warm wood.

Gwenniel wraps the shawls tight around her body when the darker memories return, breathes in deeply to clear the feeling of smoke from her lungs, and pretends. Some days it is her father. Later it becomes her uncle, embracing her and remarking how tall and clever she has grown, though this is harder without a piece of clothing to hold his scent. She gave his things to Finduilas.

Faelindis can no longer envy her friends for their courting beaus. Her time attending to them is spent wiping away the tears only she is privy to and brushing their hair until the redness in their eyes disappear, fit once more to be seen in public company. She tries not to envy the mementos they have of loved ones. Aside from that her time is empty. Faelindis has no more record books for distraction.

* * *

  _After Sauron, the dragon comes._

* * *

 

 

Faelindis runs her fingers through her hair and wipes at the bleeding cut with the corner of her ragged dress. She knows that she smells of smoke and sweat, but she carries her head high and aims for the composure she remembers of her friends. When she cries, she tells herself that is permissible because Finduilas cried, and Gwenniel was strong even when scared and lost and uncertain. 

**Author's Note:**

> Faelindis is the heroine of [Release from Bondage](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4723037/chapters/10791461). Gwenniel, mentioned but not by name in that story, is the daughter of Gelmir.


End file.
